


The Mysterious Mustache

by bicycles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack and Angst, M/M, Mustaches, Reichenbach Feels, Spoilers, The Reichenbach Fall Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bicycles/pseuds/bicycles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which five people remind Lestrade that John's mustache really needs to go. Heavily implied Lestrade/Sherlock, feels, and some crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mysterious Mustache

The first time he saw John after the funeral, he had been in the corner store. He had needed a bottle of wine, to go with his monthly re-reading of the case files (the ones that declared Sherlock a fraud, his career a disgrace, he didn't need to remind himself of what they said). The man before him seemed a little smaller, hunched over in his grief. Lestrade had put out a hand, had been about to say something _comforting_ , but he didn't know what to say. 

"Come over to mine?" he asked, holding up the bottle.

John seemed about to say no, but Lestrade had insisted.

"You don't look well," he had said. 

"You need a distraction."

So, John had come over, and they'd spent most of the night drinking. They didn't need to talk, because talking about what they already knew seemed stupid, and thinking about what seemed stupid only reminded him of, well, _him_. 

"I'm getting married," John had said, close to morning. The light had started to creep in underneath the curtains, leaving a soft glow where the fire had burned out hours ago. "I don't know how it happened. But -"

"That's great, John." 

"Yeah, she's great."

The wedding took place at a small church. Lestrade had shown up late, because he didn't know if he should, didn't know why he wanted to go to the wedding of the fraud's partner (he wasn't a fraud, he reminded himself) and a woman he hardly knew. But, of course, he went and he brought a gift (a bottle of wine).

"John," he had started to say. The younger man turned to look at him, and the inspector stopped. "What the hell is that on your face?"

"Sorry?" asked John, seemingly confused.

But Lestrade wasn't confused. There was a giant piece of fluff on John's face that - "Is that a mustache?"

"I thought - I thought I'd go for a change -" John stood his ground. "Mary likes it."

Lestrade didn't know what to say. Except, "Sherlock -" and then he remembered himself as he watched John's face fall. It was a subtle crease of the eyebrows and a glance away before their eyes met again. "I'm sorry, John."

He left shortly after. He didn't have anything to say anyway. He didn't belong there.

\- - - 

The second time hadn't been him at all, but Molly. She had given one look at the - the _thing_ \- on John's face and shrieked. 

"Why do you have that mouse on your face?" she asked. 

"It's a mustache," said John, seemingly exasperated. He was leaning on the counter, going over evidence that he had picked up at a case. As much as Lestrade tried to stop him, he just couldn't stop Sherlock's partner from _continuing_ his work.

Really, Sherlock would have been proud.

"I know it's been hard for you, John," she said quietly. "But that isn't how it's done."

Yet, here was Molly flat out telling him that it had to go. 

"I'm fine," said John. "What do you have from the crime scene analysis?"

Lestrade listened to this exchange, straightening a few of the crime scene photos as he did. He thought that John looked like a cross between a child burglar and a badly drawn TV detective, something that he hadn't yet worked up the courage to tell his new associate.

"If you want," said Molly, after she'd explained how the chemicals in the shoe prints indicated a certain type of dirt, "you and Mary should come over for dinner this weekend." He watched as she put her hand on John's. "We'd love to have you."

He didn't hear John's response. He was too busy walking out the door, coat collar turned up, too busy to think of all those late night dinners. All those discussion of cases that seemed to come together without prior notice (he knew he wasn't a fraud, so why had he thought that he was?). And what it must be like to be able to move on. 

\- - -

"Inspector, do you have a moment?" Sally Donovan stood in his doorway, holding a stack of papers. "I have information on the case that Dr. Watson was following up." She seemed to have that mixed look on her face, one of part pity and part disgust. 

Lestrade ignored it. He ignored her, too, as he gestured to a space on his desk. He was reading up on one of the old cases that they had worked together, looking for clues of negligence. There were many, but nevertheless, the conclusions were sound. 

"Sir, if I may," said Sally. He heard the click of heels across his office and the papers being dropped on his desk, but he didn't look up. "If I may suggest, sir," she continued, "you might need to speak to Dr. Watson about the danger that he is putting himself in. After the incident....certain measures...Sir, what if he's a copy cat?" 

Finally, Lestrade met her gaze, seeing all the concern written clearly across her features. He knew this conversation had nothing to do with John Watson, or his predilection to being a murderer (there was none, and they both knew it). 

"You're suggesting John Watson is a copy cat?"

"No, sir, but -" 

"What is it exactly?" said Lestrade, keeping his voice remarkably calm. 

"He's just impossibly close to Sherlock Holmes, and all of this, we don't know why either of them do it."

"To protect people," he said, brushing aside her obvious point. He didn't know why they did it either, or why John _continued_ to do it despite Lestrade's warnings. "To grieve. Because it's what we do."

She opened her mouth, as if to counter his argument, but what she said next surprised him. "And what of the carpet on his face?"

Lestrade threw his files down on his desk. "For fuck's sake, Donovan, I have work to do. We're not here to discuss Dr. Watson's grooming habits."

But he could have sworn later, as he was walking to find a cup of tea, or something stronger, that he overhead Sally Donovan telling Dr. Watson that she knew a professional barber. That made the day go a little faster. He looked over the notes that John had brought him. The words came back to him as he looked them over.

"Quite good, really," she had said.

"And the case?" John had said, completely unperturbed. 

\- - -

John had a new flat with Mary on the opposite side of the city from Baker Street. When John invited him over to celebrate the end of his first successful case, Lestrade hadn't known what to expect. He hadn't expected the complete _domesticity_ of the location. It ran counter to everything that Lestrade had come to expect from John Watson, and he realized in that moment that everything he thought he knew about John was really just a reflection of what he knew and loved about Sherlock. He didn't really know anything about _John_ per say. 

John and Mary prepared the meal together because they were the sort of couple, still in that soft honeymoon glow, that did everything together. They cooked, and cleaned, and even argued in that harmonious way of newlyweds. It made Lestrade almost sick, sitting in that sitting room, listening to the two of them. 

"Really, John, just a trim. Don't you agree Inspector?" said Mary. She set a bottle of scotch on the table and poured three glasses. "It's become too much."

"You said you liked it."

"Yes, but -" 

Lestrade felt like an intruder, as though he didn't belong here, even though he had been invited. _Mary insists_ , John had said. 

"You're an excellent detective," he said, changing the subject. 

John seemed to pause, to hesitate. He took a sip of his scotch and said thank you. But underneath it all, Lestrade thought his actions said, _yes, but not as good as him._

"Isn't he?" said Mary, excited to light upon a new subject. "I've told him he should make his own persona."

"The roast must be done," said John. 

"Why should that fraud have all the glory?"

And there it was, a stake right through both of their hearts, as John looked at Mary and Lestrade looked at John. Lestrade summoned his diplomatic strength (summarily, something that had won him the Inspectorship in his early years).

"I quite agree," he said. "A persona."

When the evening was over, John pulled him aside. "Don't listen to her. I can't -"

"I know," said Lestrade.

"It's just -"

"I know." And then, because he thought he might drive the knife in further, he added, "Care to join me for a drink?"

There was a moment of hesitation, in which he thought John might decline, and then they were both seated in the back of a taxi, not talking about him. Not talking about anything, really. _He_ had always been the talker, amongst the three of them, and _he_ was gone.

\- - - -

A year passed, and another year after that. Lestrade didn't see much of John, and he saw even less of Mary. They had a daughter now, named Emma or Anne or something equally posh and expected. Lestrade had congratulated John, who looked better now. If any of them could look better now, it was John. 

The two of them had been out drinking again when it happened. Lestrade had left John to the first taxi, telling him to get home to his wife and daughter. He had been standing alone on that corner, wrapped twice in his overcoat, but still cold. It was January in London, the worst time of year, and not even the scotch warmed him. 

"What's that thing on his face?" said a voice from behind him.

It was a voice from the grave. Lestrade didn't turn. It was his imagination, or the wind, or the drink playing tricks on him. 

A hand touched his shoulder, a bony hand clothed in smooth black gloves. Lestrade nearly jumped, and then he turned, and then he stopped. The world seemed to stop, for a brief moment, as though the entire gravitational pull of the universe rested upon a single man. 

"Sherlock?"

"I'm gone two years, and he grows a carpet on his face."

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?" 

Except that wasn't the right thing to say. It never was. 

"I thought that was obvious," said Sherlock. "I've returned. Now, we must see about a barber, and are my rooms in tact? I asked Mycroft..."

They were standing on a cold London corner, alone. Lestrade thought that he must truly have lost his mind. He stuttered a few, half-concocted sentences, drunken things that tumbled out of his mouth unbidden. They weren't anything of consequence, only shared his disbelief that this was real. He reached out a hand to touch the black hair, the pale face. Sherlock didn't push him away, didn't ask, didn't even smugly say everything that Lestrade could read clearly in his eyes. 

"You were dead."

"And now I'm not."

The words hung upon the air, still and silent. 

"I don't understand." 

Sherlock leaned forward, close enough to whisper in Lestrade's ear. 

"I think you do." 

There was a moment in which Lestrade didn't know what to do (except he did). He allowed Sherlock to do it for him, to take his hand, to lead him to a cab, to kiss him senseless in the back as the detective expertly gave Lestrade's new address (how did he always know everything). 

And when they were sitting up, late in the early hours of the morning, Lestrade said, "I don't know. But it really has to go. He thinks it makes him Columbo."

"I don't understand."

"The TV - oh, nevermind."

He knew it was folly to explain TV personas, particularly American personas, to the sharpest detective that he had ever met. Sherlock didn't abide pop culture. He didn't abide most things, and yet here they were. He wondered if this mattered, or if it didn't, if it was just another pawn in the game. 

"Where were you?"

"Abroad." 

"I see," said Lestrade, turning away. He needed a cigarette, or a drink, or something to remind him that this was real. That he hadn't descended into the ninth level of Hell, the ninth level of madness. It had been _two_ years, two years and three Christmases. 

Not that he had counted. 

"You don't," said Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But I'll explain once we're all safe again."

"Again? We were safe before you came back here." There was anger in his voice now, face to face with the demon that had haunted him (two years, three Christmases, and a Fall). 

Sherlock seemed to chew his lip, seemed to hesitate, seemed to be wary of the emotion in his voice (and he should be, thought Lestrade. He should be). 

"I had to come back. I had to lead them to the house. I had to -"

_I had to do it for John, for Mrs. Hudson, for us._ The words were there, unspoken, unreadable across Sherlock's face, and yet there. Lestrade knew where to look when he wanted answers, and even when he didn't. 

"And John?" 

"He doesn't need to know until it's over."

"He'll want to help," said Lestrade. 

"He can't help. Not with this. It's too dangerous."

_He's gone domestic._

_He's done a lot without you._

_Solved our toughest cases._

_Columbo._

"Fine," said Lestrade, turning over, sinking into his own bed. He was thinking about what he might tell John after this, but mostly he was thinking about that damn mustache and how it needed to go. "We can discuss logistics in the morning."

He knew Sherlock didn't sleep. Knew the other man would spend the night roaming his apartment, looking into all of the things that he had kept secret for two years, all the things that had kept him together (and not) and that weren't really secrets anyway. He knew this, and yet he slept, he slept sounder than he had in years because Sherlock was here. Sherlock was here, and alive, and moving on was bullshit anyway.


End file.
